


Of Masks And Dreams

by Suzie Shooter Archive (Suzie_Shooter)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Masks, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Venezia | Venice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie%20Shooter%20Archive
Summary: 15th century Venice, city of masks and intrigue. Aziraphale's daily routine is disturbed by the arrival of a certain demon - and his nightly routine even more so.(First posted on LJ, 13th August 2007)





	Of Masks And Dreams

Venice. City of masks, and intrigue. Thousands of souls negotiating the daily dance on the knife edge between Heaven and Hell. 

Not that they realised they were on a knife edge, Aziraphale grumbled half-heartedly to himself as he negotiated the steep winding steps up to his chamber, arms loaded with a pile of manuscripts. They were for the most part entirely occupied with living and loving and occasionally assassinating each other. Not in the least worried about a little thing like eternal damnation. 

The golden glow of lamplight lent an impression of warmth to the small stone room. It was cold up here in winter, although the floor-to-ceiling books lent a certain insulation. 

He dropped his bundle heavily onto an ornately carved table, and winced at the subsequent pathetic little crunch. He'd forgotten about the other package. Moving the manuscripts and retrieving the crushed box beneath, he looked round furtively before nodding at it. The box, and its pastries, sprang back into shape obligingly. He smiled. He liked Venice. Although he thought from time to time it would have been nice to have someone to share it with. Angels tended towards the flocking instinct, after all.

Throwing back the shutters, he revealed a dizzying view of the cityscape below, canals glinting like frozen arteries between the bleached bones of the buildings. Aziraphale liked being up this high. He supposed it was natural for someone of his - calling.

~

Carnival. The streets thronged with people in varying degrees of inebriation, all of them masked. Grotesque, and beautiful. A mermaid danced hand in hand with a Harlequin. A leering faun chased a gaggle of squealing princesses over a bridge. Beneath the arches across the square, someone leaned, watching the crowd, dressed as an angel.

Aziraphale was heading back to his chamber fresh from delivering three visions and convincing a man to enter the priesthood rather than the theatre. Although he quite liked the theatre, and wasn't entirely sure he'd been quite as convincing as he'd meant to be. 

The angel costume caught his eye, and he turned his head for a better look. It amused him, to see the changing fashions of how the mortals depicted his kind. But the figure had gone. 

Frowning, his gaze swept the crowd until finally he saw it again. His frown deepened. The figure was now on the opposite side of the square. Surely no mortal could have moved that fast - unless there were two - but no, he was certain it was the same figure he'd seen first of all. It was a good costume, complete with wings. Very - convincing wings, now he thought about it. As he stared, he realised something else was strange. The crowd, jostling and baying in their hundreds, nonetheless were leaving a respectful distance around the lone figure without apparently realising it.

And then the figure turned its head and looked straight at him.

Aziraphale caught his breath. No-one should have been able to see him, unless he wanted them to.

A laughing, carousing group of pirates passed in front of him, and when his view was clear once more the figure had gone.

Aziraphale searched the square, but to no avail, and as he wandered homewards, his thoughts dwelt on the strange figure. There had been something of the uncanny about it. His hidden wings prickled uncomfortably. He didn't like the idea of someone - something - watching him.

Closing the door into the base of the tower behind him, he almost discorporated in alarm when someone that had been lurking in the shadows inside cleared their throat.

Turning, he beheld the angel from the square. Long white robes shot through with golden thread and a traditional carnival mask complete with wooden halo, exaggerated expression of holiness upon its painted face. But the wings - the wings were real.

They beat lazily, once, twice, in the confined space, then folded out of sight. He realised now, the figure was loosely holding a bottle of wine by its neck. 

"So do you like it?" The figure did a twirl, before toasting him with the bottle and snorting with laughter.

At the sound of the voice, Aziraphale relaxed. 

"Crowley." Part of him was trying to remind himself that this was still a demon, and he shouldn't be so pleased to see him. It. He ignored it. 

"What _are_ you wearing?” he sniffed, disparagingly. No reason to let Crowley know how happy he was to see him, after all.

"Rather fetching, don't you think?" Crowley looked down at himself, and the halo fell off and rolled across the floor. "Oops. There I go again," he grinned. He clicked his fingers and abruptly the costume disappeared and he was clad from head to toe in black leather. With the occasional stud. 

Rather - form-fitting leather, Aziraphale couldn't help noticing, with a frisson of guilt. 

Crowley was lounging at the foot of the stairs, smirking at him. "Aren't you going to invite me up?"

"Wouldn’t a devil costume have been more appropriate dear boy?" enquired Aziraphale as he lead the way up the stairs (having decided that following Crowley up in those trousers would have been an unreasonable temptation to put himself in the way of).

Crowley gave a mock sigh. "But then I wouldn't have been in fancy dress, would I?" 

He followed the angel into the room and smiled knowingly as his eyes roved over the shelves of books. "I must say, I see why you like it here. Marvellous city. So much opportunity for mischief."

He dropped down onto the bed, rumpling the heavy brocade cover and making Aziraphale frown at him. The angel's objection died on his lips however, when he took in the thigh length leather boots Crowley was wearing. He shook himself, and hurriedly turned away.

Behind him, Crowley grinned. He'd forgotten just how much fun angel-baiting was. The next thought - that he had truly missed Aziraphale - stopped him in his tracks. Wondered, now, how much of his decision to come here had been based on a simple desire to see his old opponent and occasional partner in crime again.

"It's been a long time," Aziraphale was saying, mirroring his own thoughts so closely that Crowley looked up in suspicion. The angel, however, wasn't even looking at him, just moving ornaments about on a shelf, self-consciously. 

"Sack of Rome, wasn't it?" said Crowley, somewhat wistfully. He produced a fresh bottle of wine from somewhere, and held it out. Aziraphale smiled, and with a wave of his own hand produced two crystal goblets. 

~

Several bottles later, they were both sprawled on the bed, leaning against each other and reminiscing companionably.

Crowley yawned, and then looked surprised. "C'n I sleep here?" he mumbled. 

Aziraphale looked at him as sternly as he could manage. "You don't _need_ to sleep. And you could sober up if you wanted. And anyway, the bed's not big enough for both of us."

"Tis," said Crowley, and Aziraphale registered that indeed, it now was. " 'n anyway," Crowley continued, "you don’t need to sleep either. 'n fact, I thought you generally didn't. Wha've you got a bed in here for 'nyway?" As he spoke, he was crawling under the covers, apparently sleepily, although his gaze never moved from the angel's face.

Aziraphale muttered something about appearances, and then muttered something slightly louder about muddy boots and bed linen. Crowley stuck a now undeniably bare foot out of the covers and waved it at him. He sighed.

"Come to bed?" invited Crowley, quietly.

"I don't - " started Aziraphale, then shrugged. He should sober up. He should be out in the city, thwarting things. But he was warm, and pleasantly drunk, and he'd missed having company. So he slipped under the covers, lying carefully apart from Crowley's sprawled form, and let himself slide into a hazy sleep.

~

When Aziraphale opened his eyes early the next morning, he became aware of three things. Firstly, Crowley's arm was thrown casually around his waist. Secondly, Crowley's left leg was draped over his own. And thirdly, he could feel Crowley's warm breath on the back of his neck. 

He tensed, but Crowley didn't move and the pattern of his breathing didn't alter. Gradually, Aziraphale let himself relax again. He had to admit, it was rather - cosy, lying here like this. 

Unseen, Crowley smiled to himself.

~

The following evening, Crowley was still hanging around. 

"So are you - staying anywhere close?" asked Aziraphale eventually, rather pointedly.

Crowley gave him an unconcerned grin. "Not so's you'd notice. I thought I'd stay here. Don't mind do you? I mean, you're supposed to succour weary travellers and that sort of thing, aren't you?"

Aziraphale glanced sharply at him, but Crowley was innocently flicking through a book of erotic poetry that Aziraphale was almost certain hadn't been on his shelves. Aziraphale sniffed, and declined to answer. But he didn't throw Crowley out, and when the demon stretched out on the bed a little later, Aziraphale eventually went to join him.

~

_There were horrors in the darkness. Death in all His forms, and pain, and despair, and so many hands, begging, pleading, and he couldn’t reach them..._

Aziraphale sat bolt upright, fighting for breath he'd forgotten he didn't need. 

A second later, Crowley was there beside him, rekindling the lamps with a wave of his hand, and holding the angel's trembling form tightly in his arms. 

"What is it?" he asked quietly, hands soothing, calming.

Aziraphale shook his head, quickly becoming angry with himself, and embarrassed, but most of all still cold to his core from the nightmare.

"Tell me," Crowley was quietly insistent, and a comfortingly warm presence at his back.

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." Aziraphale tried to sound dismissive, unconcerned, but Crowley caught the tremor in his voice and tightened his embrace, laying his face gently against the angel's back. 

"It's alright," he murmured, "it was just a dream. I've got you." 

Aziraphale turned in his arms, and Crowley thought he'd never seen the angel look more beautiful - face flushed, hair awry and eyes dark and haunted.

"Not - just a dream. Things that really happened. They all happened. All the people - that I couldn't save. It's - why I don't sleep, Crowley. They're all there, waiting for me. Accusing." He dropped his gaze, whispering the last word.

In response, Crowley pulled him closer, down into the still warm sheets, until Aziraphale's head was resting on his chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, hands stroking gently down the angel's back, "I didn't know." Gradually, he felt the tension seep out of Aziraphale's body, and pressed the ghost of a kiss into the angel's golden curls. "No more nightmares," he whispered. "Not while I'm here. I'll scare them all away."

"Promise?" said Aziraphale, in a small voice.

"Trust me," smiled Crowley. "I'm a demon."

~

The following night, Crowley wordlessly held out his arms and after a second's hesitation, Aziraphale lay down in them, falling gradually into a dreamless sleep.

Winter passed into Spring, and Crowley still occupied Aziraphale's chamber. Their days passed amicably enough, occasionally tempting and thwarting, but more often just watching the city, in shared delight and amusement.

Most nights would see Crowley asleep in the soft, warmly draped bed. Often, Aziraphale would stay up, ostensibly reading, but more often than not just watching him sleep, and trying not to think about why. Occasionally, he would join the demon in the bed, and always Crowley would open his arms to him, even if he had apparently been dead to the world moments before. Wrapped in Crowley's arms, the nightmares left Aziraphale in peace. 

Other more tangible concerns that had at first bothered the angel also proved groundless as the days passed by and Crowley never pressed his advantage, when holding his companion close in the night. Crowley would press a chaste kiss to his hair, or the back of his neck before sleeping - no more. A gesture Aziraphale came to silently treasure.

~

One evening, warm air of early summer wafting through the shutters, Aziraphale looked into his glass of deep ruby wine and voiced a question that had been nagging at him, on and off.

"How do you do it?"

Crowley looked up from examining a mask of a rather surprised looking monk. He'd taken to collecting them, especially the ecclesiastical ones. Mainly, Aziraphale suspected, to annoy him. 

"Do what?"

"Keep the nightmares away." Aziraphale's eyes were fixed firmly on his wine, and so he missed the expression that passed over Crowley's face. 

"I've had practise," the demon said, after a pause.

Aziraphale looked up then, but Crowley's face was carefully blank. "I don’t understand," said the angel.

Crowley sighed. "We operate in dreams, right?"

Aziraphale nodded. Dreams and visions were one of the most effective methods for transmitting divine influence. Or, he acknowledged, devilish temptations.

"Well it's like that. Only the other way round," Crowley said with a note of finality, as though that explained everything.

"But how?" persisted Aziraphale, oblivious to Crowley's reluctance. 

Crowley hissed, and then, when Aziraphale looked startled, sighed. "I've had a lot of practise in blocking out nightmares, okay? Screaming, tortured souls anyone? I spent a considerable amount of time in Hell, remember?"

"But you're a demon - " started Aziraphale, biting off his words as soon as he saw Crowley's face, but it was too late, far too late to take them back.

Crowley hurled the mask he'd been holding across the room, where it hit the window frame and cracked into two. 

"Oh, that's right," he choked, bitterly. "I'm a demon. Just another demon. How could I forget? Of course, the souls screaming in my head, I'm supposed to like that aren't I? Pardon me for polluting your angelic hideaway." And he strode to the door.

Aziraphale finally found his tongue. "Crowley! I didn't mean - I didn't - I - please, Crowley, don't go. I'm sorry. Crowley?"

The demon stood, one hand on the door handle, not looking at him, but not leaving. Yet. Aziraphale moved closer, put one tentative hand on his shoulder. Felt the fierce tension beneath his hand, as through Crowley was struggling not to hit something. 

Crowley muttered something under his breath, and it took Aziraphale a second to catch it.

"Just a demon."

"No." Aziraphale put his other hand on Crowley, and tried to turn him round. He might as well have tried to shift an immovable object. 

"Just a demon." Crowley's hand tightened on the handle.

"No. Not just a demon. My demon." Aziraphale murmured.

Crowley turned so fast Aziraphale almost lost his footing. "What? What did you say?" he demanded.

"My demon," whispered Aziraphale, holding his wide, yellow eyed stare.

"What - exactly - do you mean by that?" Crowley's voice was tight, but whether it was in anger or something else, Aziraphale couldn't tell. Tried to find the words, words that would convey what he meant - what he felt. 

Finally decided actions, in this case, would be more eloquent. 

Closing the short distance between them, he pressed a kiss to the startled Crowley's mouth. Felt the sharp intake of breath and then, when he didn't pull away, felt Crowley's lips part hesitantly beneath his own. Then felt Crowley's hands seize his arms, and Crowley’s tongue slide across his own. The next few minutes were lost in a haze of frantic, hungry kisses, holding each other fiercely, as though each was the only solid point in a world made of shadows. 

Eventually, they broke apart and stared at each other. 

"I've wanted to do that for so long," said Crowley faintly, tracing one finger along the line of Aziraphale's jaw.

Aziraphale smiled at him. "And yet you never tried. All this time, we've been - sleeping - together - you've never done anything more suggestive than kiss my hair."

Crowley swallowed and looked uncomfortable. "I wanted to. So much. But I couldn't. I couldn't tempt you."

"Oh, I think you could have,” said Aziraphale, quietly.

Crowley smiled, sadly. "I know. That's why I didn't." He looked away. "I don't want you to Fall, Aziraphale. I've never wanted that."

"You love me," said Aziraphale, wonderingly. He kissed Crowley on the forehead, almost reverently.

"Oh, tell everyone why don't you," objected Crowley, with what might have been a blush. But he returned the angel's embrace, and the next kiss, and the next.

Aziraphale waved his hand, and the shutters closed out the night air, and the lamps dimmed to a gentle glow. "Come to bed. My love."

Crowley let himself be pulled away from the door and down onto the bed, his anger and hurt swept away on a wave of longing and desire. 

His hands moved to the lacing of Aziraphale's shirt, gradually exposing the luminescent skin beneath. He knew, had they wanted, they could have been naked in an instant, but he wanted this, wanted to unclothe Aziraphale slowly, carefully, teasingly. He'd waited a long time for this. He wasn't going to rush.

Crowley bent his head to kiss Aziraphale's chest, forked tongue flickering lightly over one exposed nipple. Aziraphale softly moaned his appreciation, pulling Crowley's own shirt over his head and casting it away, before running his hands over Crowley's shoulder blades, mapping the taut flesh with his fingertips. 

Crowley moved against him, and the angel moaned louder as he felt the demon's hardness pressing against his own. Crowley smirked against Aziraphale's hot trembling skin. _Sexless angels, my arse,_ he thought, as his hands found their way to the fastenings over Aziraphale's groin. Slipping the cloth slowly down over Aziraphale's hips, he pressed a line of kisses down his chest and stomach, pausing as he dropped lower. 

The feel of Crowley's breath warm over his straining arousal made Aziraphale dig his nails into Crowley's back, making him hiss with pleasure. He dipped his head and kissed the angel's swollen length, licking the tip lightly and making Aziraphale's eyes flutter in dizziness. 

"Oh, God, oh Lord, oh - _Crowley._ "

Crowley crawled back up Aziraphale's body, his own clothing gone now, both of them as naked as daybreak, holding each other as close as two bodies could be. 

Thrusting together in utter abandon, mouths devouring each other, the intense sensations breaking over them loosened their control until together, both shook out their wings and somehow, in a way that shouldn't have been possible in the tiny room, both figures rose into the air, mouth still pressed together, legs entwined and arms locked in a fierce embrace, wings beating to the rhythm of their thrusts. 

Their climax took them together, and for a long moment, nothing - not Heaven, not Hell - existed for them but the feeling of ecstasy brought by the touch of the other.

Shaking, sighing, they came down upon the bed and lay, wrapped in a safe cocoon of arms and feathers. 

There would be no nightmares tonight.

\--


End file.
